


Winter Gale, Emerald Waters

by ryukoishida



Series: Hum of the Swords [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: Gen, M/M, just lots of sword fighting and tension, rōnin AU, wandering swordsmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their swords clash that fateful night, Yamazaki Sousuke, who has fallen into the rōnin status due to defying his master’s command, is at the lowest point of his life; he’s got nothing to lose. Meanwhile, Nanase Haruka, childhood friend and personal bodyguard of the kind and generous Lord Tachibana Makoto, sees something in the wanderer that echoes in his heart and makes him hesitate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Gale, Emerald Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the glorious SouHaru swordsmen drawing by tatsudai. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing; this is probably so historically inaccurate that someone will need to hit me. Title is the translation of the made-up school of swordsmanship that Haruka practices in this fic, “Fuyukaze Hekisui Ryū”, or “冬風碧水流”.

“Who goes there?” Nanase Haruka raises his hand up, silently signalling the people who are trailing behind him – a horse-drawn carriage protected by five skilled swordsmen – to stop.

 

His soft, levelled breathing is deafening in the absolute silence of the night, the velvet black of the sky adorned by a frail, crescent moon and dotted with splatters of constellations that blink sleepily down at the inhabitants of Earth.

 

The early spring air carries a sharp chill reminiscent of last year’s winter unwilling to let go and the subtle sweet scent of cherry blossoms blooming all around them, the pale petals falling in playful twirls of pink and cream, following the dark whisper of the breeze.

 

His thumb traces the lip of his scabbard before pushing his blade an inch out of its protective sheath, the silken whisper of metal against cherry wood crisp and precise, a familiar and comforting tune to Haruka’s trained ears.

 

Behind the dark-haired man flanked by his left stands Hazuki Nagisa – a small, slender youth with curls spun gold as summer’s sunlight and watchful cerise eyes that glow bright in the darkness – and by his right is Matsuoka Rin – a tall man of feline grace in the manner he draws out his weapon, his flame-red locks tied into a loose ponytail that falls past his shoulders, his carmine irises glimmering dangerously and lips thinned into a firm line. Both guards have already pulled out their blades as they prepare to spring into action the moment they detect any signs of movement from their surroundings.

 

“Haru-chan?” The few streetlamps that dot the otherwise deserted and murky road cast an eerie glow of fire-orange and negative space that flicker over Nagisa’s pale, pixie-like features.

 

“Just one,” Haruka replies in an even tone without another prompt from the blond, adding with a note of reluctance seldom used by the usually poised and cold swordsman, “He’s strong though.”

 

It’s subtle but he can almost taste the change in the air’s movement – a raw metal stench, like the copper reek of blood, like a crazed, desperate animal driven into a corner.

 

Nagisa and Rin glance over at each other over the dark-haired man’s off-handed comment, brows knitted in worry, and the grips on their swords tighten; it’s not everyday they witness the unease practically oozing from Haruka’s still stance at the onset of a fight. Their opponent must be terribly competent and even deadly if Haruka is unsure of whether the six of them, chosen not only for their absolute loyalty to the Tachibana clan, but also for their insurmountable kenjutsu talents known to be undefeated in the prefecture – including Ryuugazaki Rei, Mikoshiba Momotarou, and Nitori Aiichirou who are guarding from behind the carriage and the passenger within – are able to take him on.

 

The wind is blowing a degree fiercer now, as if sensing the presence of something threatening so that the blossom petals are dancing a dizzying, furious waltz in the lambent fire light, a blizzard that attempts to blind them in its poetic and lethal beauty, shielding the enemy’s trace in the wake of its haunting fragrance.

 

The attacker is either stupidly courageous, or just plain stupid to even consider launching a surprise assault against the Tachibana clan, a family renowned in the prefecture for their wealth as well as the clan leader’s generosity and kindness as a daimyo intimately linked to the country’s other aristocratic clans. Despite their prosperity and influential role in the government’s workings, however, it seems like the head of the Tachibana family merely wants to create a functional and comfortable community for those civilians who reside within the lands he owns and has no interest in getting himself mixed up within the internal political struggles among other feudal lords to attain the top position as the next shogun.

 

Under Tachibana Takeo’s fair and tactful ruling, as well as due to his own amiable and open attitude towards others regardless of the rigid class system, the villages and towns have enjoyed over a decade of peace dominated by citizens who are, for the most part, leading fulfilled lives and are satisfied with what they have earned by their own strength and abilities. Homelessness is almost unheard of, and the few who live in poverty due to unfortunate circumstances that are out of their control are nursed back to health and given appropriate places of employment under the direction of Lord Tachibana’s own men.

 

The changes he has initiated over the years are gradual, but the result is clear as droplets of water gathered through the decade slowly but surely begin to form a large, dazzling lake: a society of harmony and the decreasing of crimes in general. When people are content, there’s simply no reason for them to stir up conflict and cause trouble.

 

Yet, that’s not to say that the land is entirely crime-free.

 

Bands of wandering bandits mostly consisting of rōnins who, for various reasons, are not following their masters anymore are not unheard of; they prey on unsuspecting travellers and cold-bloodedly slaughter those who defy their demands. Their past honour as the respected class of samurai has been left forgotten in a twisted worldview shaped by a cruel combination of their master’s unjust treatment and the fluctuations of a progressive society gradually moving forward and away from the traditional ideals of what they had fought so hard for in the past.

 

Haruka has known that the area they will be passing through are infiltrated with a group of those roaming thieves, and so has decided beforehand to increase the number of accompanying guards on the Young Lord Tachibana Makoto’s late night journey through the quiet, little town on their way back to the Tachibana residence.

 

“Haruka?” A hand reaches out to pull the velvet curtain to the side as a young man with vibrant green eyes and long, auburn hair tied neatly back into a high ponytail pokes his head out, head tilted slightly in a wordless question.

 

“Makoto-dono, please remain inside,” Momotarou urges in a hushed tone, golden gaze carefully sweeping across the empty path lighted only by a few torches of flickering flames, casting everything else beyond in utter darkness, as he makes his way to the side of the carriage.

 

“What’s happen ––? ”

 

“Here he comes!” Haruka bellows, unsheathing his sword in an arc of flashing silver under the watery moonlight as he senses the sharp screech of his opponent’s incoming attack to his left. Like silver raindrops that suddenly appear above their heads without any warning, the knives fall around them in a furious storm from every direction, and with metallic clangs that are still resonating in their ears long after their weapons have made contact, Haruka effortlessly knocks down the throwing knives with a flourish of his blade, and they clatter to the ground in a useless pile like forlorn stars glimmering weakly in the dirt.

 

The other swordsmen, however, are not so lucky.

 

“Rei-chan, are you all right?” Nagisa rushes to his comrade’s side, and the blue-haired man hisses when the blond touches the arm where one of the flying knives has sliced through the sleeve of his haori. Blood is seeping out in slow trickles, moistening the pale violet fabric into spots of dark maroon.

 

“Just a little cut, is all,” Rei replies, repositioning his stance as he leans away from Nagisa’s supporting arms. “Haruka-san, I’m still capable of fighting.”

 

The dark-haired man gives a small nod of acknowledgement. “Anyone else injured?” Haruka asks briskly.

 

“No, sir!” The calls are unanimous behind him, but the tension is thick in the air now, the wind from earlier suddenly dying down into a ghostly stillness, like the world has become stagnant, frozen in time and space.

 

The dark-haired swordsman releases a long, steady breath as he lowers himself into a crouch, one long leg stretched out in balance. His mouth curls into an unimpressed sneer and the cerulean of his irises, dark and deep as a clear night sky, glimmers with silent menace. “Attacking us in the dark is a dirty and cowardly move, even for a fallen rōnin like yourself, don’t you think?” Haruka holds his sword in a defensive stance before him, the metal emanating a threatening sheen of white-blue under the soft glow of the moonlight.

 

By the far side of the narrow path where the lights of the torches are unable to touch, a man laughs – low, rough, and verging on despair, dripping with acidic scorn. “What would you know about people like us, Nanase Haruka?”

 

“How do you know my name?” His head turns slightly to the direction where he hears muted footsteps on grass, his voice, like his steady, skilful hand that’s clutching his weapon with relaxed fingers, never wavering.  

 

By nature, Haruka cannot be described as an overly talkative or amiable person; in fact, he finds social gathering and the meaningless exchange of conversations with strangers whom he doesn’t care for much more exhausting than five hours of nonstop swordsmanship training. But this is part of the tactic – this small talk – a distraction to draw the enemy out.

 

“Don’t belittle me with your false modesty, Nanase,” the stranger replies with a scoff, and Haruka’s fingers twitch on the cloth-bound handle as the man’s voice seeming to have drifted closer, cold and deep and sending a sigh of tremors along his spine. “Everyone in our generation who practices the art of sword knows your name: the sole survivor and descendent of the sword-making Nanase clan notorious for crafting the legendary blades wielded by heroes and villains alike, and originating and perfecting the Fuyukaze Hekisui Ryū. You had surpassed your father’s techniques even in your late teenage years and were working secretly as a government’s agent until a few years ago.”

 

The other swordsmen exchange uneasy glances with each other at the new information about their leader, though their young master, still seated inside the carriage but has lifted the curtain to observe the situation, is strangely calm, his gaze drifting towards the dark-haired man in what can only be described as deep concern.

 

Haruka appears to be unperturbed by the fact that this stranger seems to know more about him than he has let on, and he doesn’t say anything in return – doesn’t really have the chance to, when the stranger continues in a bitter tone, “To find you as a hired guard dog for some feudal lord’s son is a little disappointing. And you have the galls to call me a ‘fallen rōnin’? Aren’t you and your little gang the ones who are dirtying the sacred name of the samurai?” 

 

“Why, you wretched bastard…” Rin edges towards where the attacker’s voice is coming from; his long blade, having tasted blood of hundreds of people and always starving for more, is shimmering coldly under the moonlight and reflecting the same kind of hunger in the redhead’s claret irises.

 

“Rin, don’t,” Haruka stops him with a quiet command, and Rin grinds his teeth in irritation but remains in his position beside the young lord.

 

“Now that you’re done insulting my comrades and myself,” Haruka speaks stiffly, shards of ice refracted in the hard-edged blue of his eyes and dripping from his silvery voice, “don’t you think it’s time for you to reveal your face? If you surrender yourself, I promise on behalf of the Tachibana clan’s name and honour that we will not harm you.”

 

The man chortles with laughter, high-pitched, breathless, and a little hysterical, and it’s one of the most hollow and desolate sounds Haruka has ever heard – the brutal melody of a winter’s concerto of death.

 

“Surrender myself?” His voice cracks, and out of the shadow they hear a man’s footsteps moving towards them, terse and precise, and the harmonious silken glide of two sharp blades sliding out of their scabbards. A burst of strong wind brings the man’s cloak sweeping and rippling around him like the black wings of a mythical creature, and the hood that veils the stranger’s face in its shadow is blown off, revealing a mess of dark hair framing sharp cheekbones, glaring eyes, pale lips curled up in a sort of manic air that sends a trill of shiver down Haruka’s spine even as he locks his limbs into place to prepare for the man’s first attack, and bright teal eyes that only display a naked desire to kill, wreck havoc, cause a storm of blood and agony simply because there’s no other reason for his existence.

 

It’s the kind of eyes that Haruka only knows too well in his past line of work.

 

Haunted by deaths of the guilty as well as the innocent, the blood splattered and dirtied their hands that can never be cleaned off no matter how hard he scrubs and washes them.

 

Haruka has seen that same look in his comrades’ eyes once upon a time. And if he tries hard enough to rake through the years of history and memories in his mind, and breaks down the walls he has spent so long constructing over the years, then he, too, would remember a time when he was constantly troubled by the same nightmare that eventually drove him to do the one cowardly thing he’d ever allowed himself to commit once in his life as a warrior: he ran away.

 

Maybe that’s what he did, too – this strange man with the frenzied eyes of a predator wielding the double swords.

 

He stops in front of the group, one sword in each hand, and as the frail orange light of a street torch flickers across his face, he whispers with a wide grin, vicious eyes locking with Haruka’s guarded gaze, “There’s no way I would surrender myself to the likes of you, Nanase – not when I have finally found a worthy opponent to fight against.”

 

With an animalistic growl of exhilaration, he flings his entire weight towards them in full speed – the cloak flapping behind him in a dramatic flare of shadow and light under the warm glow of the flames – with his weapons aimed towards the dark-haired swordsman.

 

The twin blades – a curved katana in his right hand and a slightly shorter wakizashi in his left – slash through the spring night air in elegant curvatures, weaving together a complicated and dangerous dance and leaving a piercing melody in its wake.

 

Haruka, in the brief moment he lets his attention stray towards the ethereal grace with which his opponent is handling the deadly swords despite his towering frame and bulky, muscle-bound built, only barely manages to dodge an incoming attack that’s aimed at his left shoulder, which has grazed his haori instead, before he blocks the next one that closely follows with a cacophonous clang of metal against metal.

 

While Haruka’s own blade gets caught in the powerful avalanche of the man’s katana, emblazoned in a stream of crimson and golden light from the torches, the man’s shorter sword is already making its way towards Haruka’s abdomen, the flow of the movement filled with such accuracy and certainty that it momentarily confuses Haruka as he finds himself wondering – even in the midst of a life-and-death battle with the teal-eyed man before him – how such an obviously skilled swordsman has fallen into this desperate state of inevitability.

 

Just as the tip of the man’s wakizashi is about to thrust into its intended target, Haruka twists his body out of the way with the litheness and velocity befitted of a sea creature narrowly slithering out of the snap of a predator’s jaws and knocks the man’s katana out of the way, though it has taken Haruka a surprising amount of strength to do so, and he can feel the strain starting to grow in his wrist, the sharp ache stemmed from the vibrations of their clashing blades more significant than Haruka has anticipated.

 

‘He’s too exceptional to be dismissed by his master for any trivial reasons,’ Haruka concludes in his head as he dodges another blow near his cheek. The man has missed by a hair’s breadth, but the wind stirred up by the sword’s velocity hits Haruka’s face like the soft crack of a whip, and he feels the right side of his face grows hot from the lash of the blade’s breath.

 

“Haruka-san!” Nitori calls out in a gasp.

 

The dark-haired swordsman quickly backs up a few steps to pull away from the double-blade wielder, his dominant arm still shaking a little from the vigorous hits he has received.

 

 

Without either men’s noticing, the group protecting Tachibana Makoto has moved to the side of the road half veiled by darkness, the guards’ swords are still out and ready but none of them dare to find a suitable gap to interrupt the flow of Haruka and the nameless rōnin’s duel. They are simply moving too fast for any for them to even slip their own swords in, and they understand, just from seeing them exchange a few bouts of combat, that no one in the group – despite being deemed some of the best swordsmen or martial artists of their generation – is even close to their skill level.

 

“Just as I thought,” the stranger smirks in satiation as he murmurs to himself even as his chest heaves deeply from exertion due to their intense combat, the katana pointing straight at his opponent while he holds the shorter sword behind his back in a reverse grip. “You are strong, Nanase, but isn’t it considered disrespectful when you aren’t even taking your challenger seriously?”

 

Haruka raises a delicate eyebrow, though he has some idea of what the man is referring to. After all, he has only been forced to defend himself up until this point and hasn’t had a chance to use his blade and the style of swordsmanship that his ancestors have passed down his bloodline to their full purpose.

 

“Yamazaki…?”

 

“What was that, Rei?” Makoto catches his subordinate’s voice though it’s obvious the man has meant to keep quiet.

 

“Ah, Makoto-dono,” he nods towards the brunet in a respectful half-bow before replying skittishly, “I believe I know the identity of that rōnin.”

 

Six pairs of expectant eyes glance back at him with utmost curiosity, but it’s Makoto who prompts him to continue, his tone tinged with a hint of restlessness, “Well?”

 

“There aren’t many swordsmen who choose to use the combination of a daitō and a shōtō to start with, and to be so proficient in the practice of nitōryū is even rarer. Among those very few who are recognized for excelling in nitōryū, only one resides in this part of the country, and he’s one of the soldiers who has pledged allegiance to the late leader Sugimoto-sama of the Samezuka clan in the Sano region.”

 

“And his name?”

 

“Yamazaki Sousuke… is it not?” Haruka nods at the teal-eyed man with the paired swords, who is still frozen in place as the dark-haired man calls out his name without any uncertainty.

 

“So, you knew?” He relaxes his stance, the hand with the smaller blade reaching over his other shoulder and kneads at the muscles there as he rolls his shoulder back experimentally. He has felt the dull ache starting a moment ago when he veered his arm too sharply to try to land a blow, but now, even as he’s merely standing with minimal movement, the muscles around his right shoulder are throbbing.

 

The action doesn’t escape Haruka’s quiet observation.

 

Still, the teal-eyed man looks on with disinterest, a corner of his lips curling upwards into a cold sneer.

 

“I ventured a few guesses when you first pulled out your daishō,” Haruka admits, and as he continues, his ice-blue eyes remain focused on the tall and powerful swordsman before him, “and seeing you use them in such a masterful manner only confirmed my initial suspicion.”

 

While everyone’s eyes are either displaying amazement at the pronouncement or just plain confusion, Rei tries to quickly explain before the two swordsmen can dive into another round, “After Sugimoto-sama passed away last year and his son ascended into the seat of authority, many of their clan’s original values and beliefs have been discarded in order to gain favours from the Shogun. Despite many of his subordinates’ protests, however, he continues to do as he pleases; those who bravely voiced out their disapproval or attempted to guide him back to the righteous path were either casted out of the clan in shame or were silenced forever.”

 

“I suppose you’re one of the lucky ones who got dismissed, Yamazaki-san,” Haruka says. Something flickers across his face, pale and delicate as the crescent moon, but Yamazaki doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it for too long. Whatever it is – recognition of his own kind, pity for his disgraced state – Yamazaki Sousuke knows he doesn’t need any of that from a stranger.

 

“I wouldn’t consider myself lucky,” Yamazaki bites out, the bitterness in his baritone clear and potent as the stars shining above them.

 

“You’re alive,” Haruka points out, eyes hardening as his firm stare finds Yamazaki’s troubled gaze, and releases a soft sigh as if Yamazaki was being the unreasonable one here, “Isn’t that already enough?” And with that statement, the dark-haired man seems to have made up his mind, and begins to put his sword away.

 

His opponent has other ideas, however, and he wordlessly demands for Haruka’s attention by sweeping his katana down in a flash of white lightning, the force so immense that the gust caused by his blade transforms into a hefty pressure that pushes against Haruka’s chest so that he staggers a step back with a visible wince.

 

If the man has swung his blade half an inch closer, Haruka’s torso would probably have been torn wide open with a long, deep gash and he’d be bleeding to his death.

 

Yamazaki Sousuke doesn’t intend to kill him. Not really.

 

He meticulously calculates the distance and strength to ensure that he has Haruka precisely where he wants him to be without creating unnecessary injuries that might have resulted in unfair advantages in their duel.

 

This man, despite his fallen state as a wandering swordsman casted out by a leader he had once sworn loyalty to, abides by the principles of the samurai. Haruka can at least respect him in that regard.

 

If it’s a fight Yamazaki desires, then Haruka has no reason to deny him that. Besides, he’d like to see more of what the man is capable of with his katana and wakizashi; double-blade wielders are quite rare after all.

 

“Rin, I trust that you can lead Makoto-dono and the others back to the Tachibana residence safely?”

 

“Of course,” Rin murmurs, but his perturbed glance falls onto the dual-sword fighter who still looks like he has no intention of backing down any time soon.

 

“I’ll keep him occupied,” Haruka tells him. To his young lord, who looks like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it, he merely gives a nod of reassurance.

 

“Don’t worry about me. I’m not going anywhere until I’m done with you,” Yamazaki returns with a grin that seems to harbour a hint of malicious design, the shadow that reaches his eyes a degree darker than before.

 

As the troop’s footsteps gradually fade away, and Haruka can, for the time being, stop worrying about his charge’s safety, they find themselves being surrounded by the rustling of the cherry blossom trees once more as Haruka unsheathes his sword for the second time that night, his gaze as icy and unwavering as the curved blade in his hands.

 

He positions himself so that he’s directly facing Yamazaki, one leg in front of the other with his knees bent and heels dig into the ground softened by that morning’s earlier rainfall as he lifts his arms so that the hilt of his sword is adjacent to his face and at his eye level. The tip blinks at its prey with a resolute and heartless eye; the shine of it, however, doesn’t come close to exceeding the fixated light from its owner’s haunting blue eyes.

 

“Finally decide to take me on seriously, Nanase?” Yamazaki’s grips on his swords tighten at the sight, his heart thundering with exuberance at the dawn of a fulfilling fight.

 

“I’ve been taking you seriously right from the start, Yamazaki-san,” Haruka replies in such a soft tone – gentle, almost, like the petals falling on his shoulders and lacing into his hair as dark as the night sky above them – and something inside Yamazaki trembles.

 

“I will fight you, but only on one condition,” Haruka continues.

 

“Oh? Are you certain you’re in a position to bargain with me?” Yamazaki taunts, but to his frustration, visible only in the way his frown deepens just the slightest, the other man seems unaffected by it.

 

“I’m unsure whether you are working for an organization or by your own accord, but should I win, you are to relinquish your position at said organization and abandon whatever petty, dishonourable deeds you have planned.”

 

Yamazaki scoffs at his demand, “That’s all?” It seems a little underwhelming given the circumstances, but if consenting to such a bizarre agreement will allow him to have the fight he has been hoping for, then he will accept it without a second thought.

 

“In addition to that,” Haruka pauses before he speaks with a heavy emphasis on the second part of his condition, “You will no longer be a rōnin but will have to swear fealty to the Tachibana clan.”

 

“Hah?” Yamazaki blinks with disbelief for a few seconds, his stiff posture slackening from the shock of hearing the last part of the other swordsman’s demand. When he’s sure that he didn’t mishear him, the taller man narrows his eyes into slits, lips tightening into a thin line, and says with vehemence that he doesn’t even try to conceal, “And why would I do such a thing?”

 

“Either you agree to this, or I take your life,” Haruka tells him easily, his soft voice a chilling touch gliding a threatening, invisible blade against his vulnerable skin, as if delivering that promise was as effortless and elegant as the words that slash through the sweet night air pungent with the fragrance of spring blossoms. 

 

He laughs, throaty and dry, and his body is shaking uncontrollably when he speaks, “You do realize that forcing me to swear loyalty to your master will almost ensure my inevitable betrayal in the future, right? Besides, after my last master has decided that I’m no longer an obedient dog who’d follow his every beckon and casted me out, I’ve sworn that I’d never let myself be bound by another like him.”

 

“Tachibana Makoto is nothing like the heartless man Sugimoto is,” Haruka murmurs, tone sharp and terse.

 

“Words are worthless if there is nothing to show for it,” Yamazaki tells him.

 

Haruka merely replies with a hint of a smile, “You’re correct, which is why I shall make sure to overtake you in this duel and present you with a chance to see how different the Tachibana clan is.”

 

If he didn’t already know Nanase Haruka to be such an accomplished swordsman who’s fully capable of fighting him in an equal stand, Yamazaki would almost call him arrogant; but, he thinks to himself with a smirk, he supposes the man is allowed to be cocky if his sword-fighting talents are as legendary as the rumours have made it out to be.

 

“And how will I be rewarded if I defeat you?” The teal-eyed swordsman asks with a shark-like grin.

 

“Do whatever you wish with me,” Haruka allows, eyes closing for a second and the dark lashes are stark crescents against the paleness of his skin, and when he opens his eyes once more, azure fire glares back at Yamazaki and ice shards seep into his tone with his next words, “But if you dare touch a hair on Makoto-dono’s head, or threaten any of my comrades, rest assured: I will not let you live.”

 

“A rotten rōnin I might be, I’ve yet fallen far enough to allow myself to break an oath made with a fellow swordsman.”

 

Yamazaki draws a few lazy arcs in the air with his blades, lines of moonlight and shadow dancing along the edges with the dexterity of his wrists and arms, before he repositions his body, limbs pliant as willow branches with his katana pulled back and up to his eye level, elbow at an upper angle, and his wakizashi placed below his waist, the length of it slanting downward so that the swords form two clean, parallel lines.

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Haruka nods.

 

After that, words are not needed as both men wish to convey their own messages with their swords. Though they know nothing of each other, they will soon realize they share more commonalities than just their obsession in the art of swords craftsmanship and dedication to the ideals they inherently represent.

 

When the wind picks up again, bringing curtains and streams of broken blossoms into a small storm that wraps around the two men, they attack almost at the same moment.

 

It’s Haruka who initiates the strike first, and from the way his body is moving – nimble and smoothly flowing like strands of silk ribbons taking flight into the sky at the softest sigh of breeze – Yamazaki isn’t expecting the contact to be this solid at all, as if all that momentum of a calm, meandering river has suddenly ascended into a rapid of rushing waters, every hit of Haruka’s blade against his own crushing and demanding, and sending violent vibrations along his joints that gradually translates into numbness.

 

Even as he keeps taking retreating steps to avoid Haruka’s relentless attack or deflecting them with some close calls on several occasions, he notices almost immediately that the other man is being tactful; instead of trying to exhaust him as quickly as possible to ensure victory, which Haruka could have easily achieved by continuing to slash at him with the deadly speed and horrifying elegance of the raging ocean under a typhoon he’s been displaying throughout, Haruka appears to want to draw him out further into the deep end with the guide of his katana, deft wristwork reeling Yamazaki’s daishō into the eye of the storm and leading him in a revelling dance of roaring thunder and dazzling lightning.   

 

Within ten minutes, the teal-eyed swordsman is gasping with laboured breaths, his heart hammering against his ribcage so hard and fast that it almost hurts to inhale, but he grins even wider, with blood roaring in his ears and whispering electricity all over his body as he takes a step back to steady himself once more in what little time Haruka allows him to settle.

 

Other than a thin sheen of sweat that makes his skin glow under the waning moonlight, nothing seems to be out of place for the other young swordsman; his sword stance remains meticulously graceful, and though Yamazaki has managed to deal out a few noteworthy attacks during the last round, Haruka has received them as naturally as water receding from the pull of the moon before exploiting that same energy and transmitting it back to Yamazaki through the vigour of his blade, the power as penetrating as the crashing waves of a rampant tsunami.

 

Yamazaki expects nothing less from the descendent of the clan that has mastered the Fuyukaze Hekisui Ryū, and he accepts the push and pull of Haruka’s sword, the flaming ache in his shoulder heightening more and more with each passing minute.

 

“Ready to yield?” The question sounds neutral coming out of Haruka’s mouth; it’s neither a taunting claim of assured victory, nor is it an utterance of pity.

 

If anything, it’s more of a gracious invitation for a draw to a friendly rivalry.

 

Yamazaki laughs, amusement colouring the grainy touch of his voice. “Not a chance.”

 

“Very well, then,” Haruka sighs, and before Yamazaki can grasp what’s happening – only catching the blue-silver glint of his opponent’s blade – Haruka is sprinting towards him head-on, the tip of his katana blinking rapidly like an ominous sign as it approaches within his line of sight in an incomprehensible speed.

 

Yamazaki holds up his swords without thinking, just letting his limbs automatically lock into a defensive position in a criss-cross that manages to repel Haruka’s attack directly in the middle of where his blades intersect, but the other man swiftly changes tactics, and uses their proximity to his advantage as he knocks Yamazaki’s wakizashi out of his hand by hitting the inside of the taller man’s wrist with the blunt end of his katana’s hilt.

 

The smaller sword falls by his feet with a thud, and Yamazaki has no time to retrieve it, not when Haruka keeps stirring up a furious whirlwind of pink and cream blossoms with his dancing blade, one moment as gentle as the lulling waves of a summer lake, and the next as harsh and merciless as a winter blitz.

 

Sparks ignite where their blades clash, specks of fire and gold stars twisting in between flashes of light and sharp peals of metal against metal before dissipating into the night like a wisp of smoke, wiped out in an instance of darkness. To Yamazaki, though his sword arm is moving as swiftly as he can manage in order to block his opponent’s fierce strikes, he feels as if time has converged into a single, drawn-out moment, and he can sense everything around him in a kind of hypersensitivity he has never experienced before: the petals that caress his cheeks soft and lush against his sweat-slicked skin, the remnant gust of Haruka’s blade a menacing, invisible chokehold around his neck, and the metallic tang of fresh blood – his own blood from the tiny serrations Haruka has made on his arms that stains his clothing black yet not enough to flow – that makes him heady with the desire to continue this fight despite his body’s gradually sluggish reactions.

 

Haruka’s sword becomes a living creature under the perfect control of his arm and wrist – a dainty and delicate dragonfly that jabs at him with accuracy, and then transforming into a formidable eagle that swoops down for the kill with such gravity that Yamazaki can feel his breaths growing short and arduous just from their close proximity. In combination with the swiftness and flexibility of his figure, as well as the guileless of his nature and resolute determination of his state of mind, Nanase Haruka is at his prime; he’s unstoppable. 

 

Yamazaki understands long before that it would be an uphill combat against the legendary swordsman, but having suddenly lost the purpose of his existence three months prior, duelling with Nanase Haruka is a breath of fresh air – a stream of life that blasts and screams its way within and through his self-constructed dungeon filled with nothing but dank hopelessness and self-loathing he often finds himself drowning in after he left the Samezuka clan.

 

He knows the exact moment when he has lost, cornered against a towering pine tree on the side of the road with only the watery light of the moon as their sole witness and source of illumination and Haruka’s sword a mere inch away from his left cheek, the tip of it sunk into the soft bark and absorbing its force that Yamazaki can still feel against his skin, a hiss of breeze teasing its elegant and foreboding finger across his pliant flesh.

 

The pain in his shoulder is flaring out of control now, like flames eating away his nerves and muscles, and he lets his katana slip through his lax fingers in defeat.

 

Yamazaki closes his eyes in expectation, his mind strangely empty and calm for someone who knows he’s about to die – just a second of hot, blinding pain across the neck, if his opponent is being merciful, or perhaps a deep stab right through his heart to get his message across, and it’ll be over for him.

 

He closes his eyes and awaits his end.

 

Except it never comes.

 

The cold sting emanating from Haruka’s blade is still present, stark against his skin, which indicates that he hasn’t removed his blade from the tree trunk yet, and if anything, his front side feels significantly warmer than before as if someone’s shielding him from the night’s gentle breeze.

 

Yamazaki opens his eyes, a soft breath escaping through his parted, dry lips and vivid teal irises blinking in the dark, and to the left of his peripheral vision is the silvery gleam of Haruka’s katana. When his gaze drops, he finally realizes the cause of the warmth: Nanase Haruka is standing in front of him almost chest-to-chest, except he’s about half a head shorter, which means that at that distance, Haruka has to crane his neck up in order to meet the other man’s eyes directly, the colour in his irises a mesmerizing fluctuation of serene blue and tempestuous black.

 

Dark locks stick to his forehead, and his breathing is a little uneven, warm, moist exhalation subtle against Yamazaki’s neck. He watches as Haruka swallows once, gaze straying a second too long on the pale column of his throat before he drags his attention away and to the right of the shorter man’s face.

 

“Why?” The single word is uttered so heartbreakingly soft, yet with such contempt, that it pierces into Haruka deeper than any blades can.

 

Within his sunken, vanquished eyes down to the unhappy twist of his lips, Haruka can read him as easily as an open scroll.

 

_Why won’t you just end my life now? Go on. Take that blade of yours and grand me a warrior’s death. What are you waiting for? What are you looking at? What do you see in me? Why are you staring at me like this - like I can be salvaged?_

 

“Why are you handing your life over to someone else so easily?” Haruka asks his own question – a challenging one for Yamazaki himself, certainly. His gaze on Yamazaki’s face doesn’t waver.

 

Is that not what he’s been doing for the past seven years – his life, though not really his to begin with once he’s sworn loyalty to the Samezuka clan, nothing more than a human weapon at his master’s disposal?

 

No, it didn’t start out that way. Sugimoto-sama was a kind lord who strived to walk the righteous path in his governing while leading and urging his followers to do the same; it was because he respected such a man that inspired and drove him to join the Samezuka faction in the first place. He’d sacrifice his own life if it were for a just cause; he had come to terms with that resolution a long time ago.

 

Yet, after the great leader of Samezuka passed away and his son – a foolish young thing that craves attention and starving for political power – has taken his place, Yamazaki began to question himself and his faith in the family he thought he once belonged in. It didn’t take him long to realize that the younger Sugimoto will do anything to climb up the higher ranks of the government, and carrying out Sugimoto’s orders due to his inability to directly disobey his leader's command, Yamazaki will never forget the hot stains of the innocent’s blood that has infiltrated deep into his skin and melded into a part of him that can never be torn away.

 

“It’s not as simple as that,” Yamazaki mutters, head turned away in a quiet act of defiance. “It’s impossible to turn a blind eye and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. I have to pay for the lives I’ve taken, though I understand the value of my pathetic existence to be too meagre to mean much; still, it’s only fair. And… I don’t believe I’ll have any regrets if I were to be taken out by a fellow swordsman and warrior as admirable as you.”

 

“So you would have me become a murderer, huh, Yamazaki-san?” Haruka leans in further, the open honesty blazing behind his blue irises almost too much for the taller man, and so he continues to escape, eyes squeezed close and lower lip bitten raw. “You’re an idiot.”

 

When Yamazaki doesn’t reply, seeming to be at a loss for words, Haruka blinks – once, twice – and lets out a small, frustrated sigh as he pulls way from the twin-blade swordsman, drawing his own sword out from the tree and returning it into his scabbard.

 

“If you still respect your status as a proper warrior, then wouldn’t the best option be for you to keep your word and come with us?” Haruka’s back is towards him, so Yamazaki is unable to see the expression he wears, but as the pale moon scatters swaying white fragments of light through the rustling shadows of lush foliage above their heads over Haruka’s black hair and porcelain skin, his figure seems to have grown taller, more resolute in the way he holds his shoulders and rod-straight back.

 

Yamazaki feels the last traces of energy and adrenaline left his limbs, and he staggers away from the trunk with unsteady legs, retrieving his wakizashi from the ground and re-sheathing both of his swords.

 

Haruka remains motionless, waiting – still and remote as an ice sculpture. The teal-eyed man makes his way steadily towards him, for what choice does he have? 

 

“How can you trust me to stay truly loyal to your master when I have so blatantly tried to cause him harm?”

 

“I don’t – not yet, anyway,” Haruka replies without missing a beat, and when he feels his companion falls in step beside him, he glances up with knowing eyes, “but I trust you as a fellow swordsman to uphold your side of the promise. And as I’ve said before, you might be surprised to find that the young Lord Tachibana’s personality can easily sway and touch even the toughest of hearts.”

 

Yamazaki supposes he’ll just have to wait and see about that.

 

Once they return to the main road, still deserted but droplets of dew have began to form on the verdant bushes and grass that flourish along the side, the two men walk side-by-side with silence settling between them; it’s not as awkward as Yamazaki has thought it’d be.

 

Haruka seems to show no sign of discomfort at their lack of conversation, either, though it’s honestly difficult to tell what the man’s really thinking from the neutral mask he constantly wears.

 

“You know,” Haruka begins after a long while, and for the first time since they’ve made acquaintance with each other, Yamazaki senses a tinge of unease – or perhaps hesitation – in the swordsman’s tone. He flexes his fingers, gathering them into loose fists and relaxing them back and forth as he lets his next words come out, “Making a mistake once doesn’t mean you have to keep reliving the experience in your head and trapping yourself within a prison of guilt.”

 

“What are you trying to say, Nanase?” Yamazaki’s frown deepens slightly, and he looks down at the shorter man to gauge for any kind of reaction, but he only has his eyes concentrated on something before him in the distance.

 

A beat of silence later, Haruka glances up at him, “Guilt is a useless construct unless you make worthwhile changes out of it, right?”

 

“And you’ve had first-hand experience?” Yamazaki raises an eyebrow; Nanase Haruka can read him too well despite the fact that this is the first time they meet.

 

With clusters of wooden and clay townhouses gradually appearing within their view, Haruka returns his attention back on the road before them and doesn’t say a word, but Yamazaki can guess that the swordsman’s lack of an answer is already an answer in itself.

 

When they’ve reached the front gate of the Tachibana residence, a two-storey edifice that encompasses the entire width of the block of street with black-tiled rooftops and magnificent carvings along the wooden supporting beams of the structure, the two guards standing by send the stranger curious glances but nod a respectful greeting to Haruka before letting them in.

 

Yamazaki thinks that the stars might have disappeared due to the bright flames that still line along the walls of the courtyard surrounding the main house, but then he realizes that dawn is coming, the edge of the horizon tinted with the first sign of the sun, streaks of crimson and gold that bleed into a long veil of bruised violet and deep indigo.

 

Night is at its dying stage of another cycle, and a new day has arrived.

 

“Are you certain that your friends won’t be aggrieved by the fact that I attempted to kill you back there?” Yamazaki’s voice is dry. Nanase Haruka might be the odd exception who seems to have no problem accepting who he is or what he has done in the past, but he can’t expect the others in the Tachibana clan to do the same; to be honest, Yamazaki can’t even blame them if that were the case.

 

They stop in front of the entrance of the largest building in the vicinity, the entryway barred by heavy oak double-doors that seems at once daunting and welcoming; beyond these doors lies Yamazaki’s fate and future still unknown and unwritten.

 

“They will not be happy about this arrangement, even though Makoto-dono will surely grant you the official approval and be glad of you joining our clan,” Haruka warns him with a grave expression, and then he grimaces when he remembers the more difficult member in his group of trusted men. “You might want to keep your toes in line around Rin at the beginning. He can get confrontational faster than anything, but he’s also one of the most reliable men I have the privilege of knowing.”

 

The image of the carmine-eyed man flashes across his mind; the fiercely protective aura he has exuded earlier that night was commendable, and his instinct informs him that the man’s martial arts skills should not be underestimated, either.

 

“It won’t be an easy route from here on, and it’ll take more than some fancy words on your part to convince the others.”

 

“Flowery language is not my forte at all,” Yamazaki assures him with a gruff laugh.

 

“Unlike the language of your swords,” Haruka’s lips quirk up into a faint smile, azure eyes glimmering with the slightest hint of humour, before it vanishes beneath the infuriatingly calm mask again.

 

Yamazaki realizes belatedly that he has been holding his breath whilst watching the fleeting but mesmerizingly gentle smile come and go, and he scolds himself in his head, blaming the physical and mental exertion from the duel and sleep deprivation for the strange tricks his mind seems to be playing with him.  

 

“So,” Yamazaki turns to Haruka with a lop-sided grin, the sea green of his irises brighter than the other man has observed thus far, and he takes it as a promising sign. “A new beginning?”

 

“I sincerely hope so.”

 

With that, he figures that his path as a wandering swordsman lost in the darkness of his own heart is coming to an end, and so with the frail flickering of a flame burning deep and slow inside his chest, Yamazaki Sousuke opens the door to greet the vibrant light that seems much closer than he has initially thought.

**Author's Note:**

> What the fuck is this ending, you ask? Hell if I know. I was just writing this so that I can write some sword fighting, and then I don’t know how to end this mess, so here we are. This is my first SouHaru fic, so I hope I did okay and I hope y’all have enjoyed this!


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